Chapter Text
---Phase 1: Detection---
Deep in the void, something moved.
Starlight glittered across ice-strewn carapaces. Tentacles long enough to scrape the surface of a planet danced like water-weed caught by a current. Three vast, bloated shapes drifted through a shroud of endless night, their faint consciousnesses nestled in dreamless sleep. They had done so for hundreds of years and left to their own devices likely would have done for a hundred more, for these were predators of a very specific kind. Already they had passed worlds that their genetic kin would have devoured without consideration.
Then, something changed.
One of the cyclopean creatures stirred. Complex sensory organs buried deep in its dorsal carapace twitched, frond-like antennae bristling in response to a new stimulus. In of itself, this was not unusual. Countless times the great, glacial mind which united the trio had roused itself, briefly tasting the psychic spoor of other races before slumping back into sullen unconsciousness. But this was different. The mind tasted hunger, need, and a desperation as all-consuming as its own, and knew its long search was over.
One by one the leviathans began to rouse themselves, meters-thick carapace plates shedding their coats of frost as they began to ripple with slow motion. Deep within their fleshy bodies, broods of scythe-armed monsters clawed their way free of hibernation blisters, shaking glutinous liquids from their lithely muscled forms. Larger creatures moved among them, clawed hands flexing, and through them the mind directed the building multitude into swarming, organised broods. None paused to look at the mummified husks which rose over them, their birthing chambers dry and ovipositor tubes hollow.
If they had, and if they had been capable of feeling emotion, they might have felt a sense of loss. They might have understood how far their evolutionary path had diverged from the rest of their distant kin, how stunted and inefficient they had become. But the mind which guided them was a thing of necessity. The continuity of their species was all that mattered.
Silently, the Hive Fleet altered its course.
---
The Yearning. That was what they called it. The curse of Seminoth the Virile One, the Keeper of Secrets which had come so close to devouring them all.
Eshana Kel'yrith, High Autarch of Craftworld Morrigan, splashed water across her face and stared balefully into her mirror. It was always worse at night, where there was nothing to distract her from the hollowness she felt in her core, the feeling of being somehow incomplete. Unconsciously she brushed a hand over her flat, toned midsection and forced down a pang of regret, reminding herself how often the Yearning had brought her to this dark place and how, every time, she had triumphed over it.
And yet the feeling remained, pulling at her thoughts like an Exodite's fishing hook caught in her brain. She glanced at herself in the mirror a second time, taking in the lean, wolfish face, the dark, predator's eyes and sleek black hair which framed them.
Would she look like me? Would she have my eyes?
The thought came out of nowhere. Eshana growled angrily and stalked away, clutching the waystone which hung on its fine silver chain around her neck for reassurance. Day would bring the distractions and duties of her office, and the comfort of her companions among the Craftworld's leaders, but it was becoming harder to keep her mind clear during the stillness and silence of night.
It had been centuries since the last breeding cycle. That was the cause, of course. But she had done her job too well, safeguarding her people from the dangers of a hostile galaxy, and initiating another round of births would stretch their limited resources to breaking point. There was nothing she - or any other member of Morrigan's all-female population - could do but endure, crushing the Yearning's endless, invasive thoughts beneath the iron strictures of the Path.
Eshana was saved from further ruminations by a soft chime from the other side of the room. Her dwelling was modest but comfortable, containing little more than a bed, a chamber for her clothing, an attached washroom and a handful of trophies and curios collected over her long life. Here and there, gems were set into the walls, allowing the Autarch to contact the psychic matrix which ran through the bones of her Craftworld. It was from one of these that the sound and came from, and she strode over to press a finger against it.
Immediately, she felt herself relax. It was dangerous to spend too long communing with the spirits which inhabited the Infinity Circuit, but contact with them was one of the few things which could help sooth the Yearning's pangs. She formed a question in her mind and pushed, letting the thought slide into the gentle song of the dead.
Who summons me at this late hour?
There was a moment's pause, and the dead replied.
High Farseer Auriel. There is a danger. She awaits you in the Dome of Sleepers.
Eshana lingered a moment longer, then when she was sure Morrigan's spirits had no further information, stepped away. "A danger?" she murmured, thoughtfully resting a hand against her pointed chin. A thin, humourless smile spread across her face. "No, not a danger, I think. A distraction, thank the Crone."
The High Autarch was dressed within minutes, clad in sweeping magenta robes and bearing an ornate power sword at her hip as a symbol of office. Pale starlight fell upon a sweeping horizon of elegant towers and branch-like aerial walkways as Eshana left her domicile, selected a small, arrow-shaped skimmer from her spire's public hanger and input her destination. It was a simple thing, linked to the Infinity Circuit and directed by the memories of the dead, but comfortable, and Eshana reclined into her seat with a lazy smile as it lifted off.
Before her, Craftworld Morrigan's primary habitation dome unveiled itself in all its glory. The forest of towers in which the world-ship's population dwelled rose from a seemingly endless expanse of lush parkland, the gently rolling hills crested with bright sprays of flowers and fat-leaved trees heavy with ripening fruit. Artificial rivers snaked through the vast garden, winding around open plazas of white stone ringed with merchant stalls and decorative works shaped by the Craftworld's many artisans. But most striking of all were the statues. Some so lifelike Eshana half expected them to blink as she passed, others so heavily stylised she barely recognised the subjects they depicted, all were crafted to represent one of the four Eldar goddesses or their mythic handmaidens.
A second, smaller habitation dome clung to Morrigan's spine along with the first, along with two others maintained for a population boom Eshana doubted would ever come. Below them lay a network of hangers, workshops and aspect shrines, transport tubes and chambers of fertile farmland where the bulk of the Craftworld's food was grown. And below that there was nothing but the arcane machines which sustained the world-ship itself, and the hollow spaces left fallow since Morrigan's desperate flight in the days of the Fall.
But while the divine gaze of Isha, Morai-Heg, Lileath and Gea stared serenely down from every tower and plaza, the goddess' male counterparts were nowhere to be seen. That was as it should be, Eshana thought. It had been a long time since men and their influence had been welcome aboard the world-ship. Not since the days of Seminoth, who had brought their Craftworld to the brink of ruin. Accidentally summoned by a gang of Artists, Dreamers and Pleasure-seekers who's passions had led them far from their respective Paths, the resultant Daemonic incursion had seen almost a fifth of Morrigan's population slain and its womanfolk afflicted by the Keeper of Secrets' final, spiteful curse.
The Yearning. The desperate, all-consuming need to bear children.
Eshana let out a soft noise of frustration and shook her head, banishing the intrusive thought once more as the Dome of Sleepers rose up before her. It seemed a simple thing from the outside, a smooth construction of Wraithbone similar to an Exodite's primitive temple, etched with stylised depictions of the Craftworld's greatest heroines. It lay at the peak of a narrow oval of ripe grassland, itself ringed by halo of artfully fortified towers which surrounded the Dome like honour guards beside their queen.
It was a simple thing by the standards of her people, but it was by far the most precious place aboard the world-ship. Eshana disembarked and swept inside, her towering, regal figure reflected over and over in the hundreds of crystal statues which filled the empty space. Four great renditions of the Eldar goddesses swept overhead, their hands joined around the room's centre point, eyes trained upon the scrying dais around which the room had been built. The only light came from the hundreds of thousands of soulstones embedded in the walls, and Eshana felt the stifling closeness of the dead as they pressed in at the edge of her perceptions.
Here, surrounded by the remains of those Farseers aged to crystal, at the nexus point of Morrigan's Infinity Circuit, the high council met to discuss the future of their home.
"Am I late, then?" Eshana's voice was high and clear, and echoed from the walls as she approached the four other figures who awaited her. One was clad in the robes of a Farseer, her ghosthelm tucked under one arm, revealing a striking face lined with age and experience. "You seem to have started without me, Auriel."
"We saw no need to disturb your rest, High Autarch." High Farseer Auriel's voice was husky and dreamlike, and her eyes glittered with traceries of crystal beneath their painted lids. "Not until we knew your skills would be required."
"Because you already know what I'm going to say?" Eshana replied, prompting a short laugh from the woman next to her. Fleetmistress Aydona was short and spiky, her light mesh armour hung with trophies and supplemented by a high-collared coat of alien leather. She had been a Corsair, once, before settling upon Morrigan, and there were persistent rumours she was descended from Commorite stock. Her bearing was proud and savage in equal measure, and Eshana liked her immensely.
"Because they know what summoning you here means," Aydona said. The Fleetmistress' voice was eager, and her eyes were wide with the promise of violence. "It's war, then?"
"There is little choice," spoke the fourth figure. "The Hive comes from an unexpected quarter, hidden from Auriel's scrying in the darkness between stars. Fortune alone led my vessel into their path, and only by Isha's grace did we return alive with our warning."
Yllia stood as the Craftworld's Ranger-Captain, the voice of its exiles and outcasts. Her kinbands were responsible for scouting ahead of the world-ship and identifying those dangers to go unnoticed by Auriel's scrying. She was a slight figure, eerily pale, her porcelain features hidden behind a shroud of white-blonde hair, and stared at Eshana with cautious disdain. "Though from the numbers we have seen, High Autarch, any attempts at defence may already be doomed. We should have initiated another breeding cycle years ago."
"Your inability to control the Yearning is noted, Ranger-Captain," Eshana's reply was carefully neutral, but her stance shifted, and the complex body language of her kind conveyed nothing but scorn. Yllia, by Eshana's reckoning, was the worst kind of coward - she had fled her home Craftworld of Altansar rather than fight the daemons which haunted it, and her repeated petitions to introduce a regular cycle of reproduction spoke of a dangerous weakness of spirit. "But I cannot - will not - lend my support to any action which could imperil our future. These are dangerous times, and the opening of the Dathedian has only seen the time ahead grow darker. Enemies have found us, yes - but they have found a society of warriors, not mothers."
Yllia's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you don't feel it, Eshana. We all do." She looked around at the rest of the council. "There's a tension in the air I haven't felt in a long time. What do you think will happen if our need exceeds our ability to contain it? Have you considered that the daemon's curse was not the Yearning itself, but what our attempts at denying it would lead to? By the Maiden, it's even become contagious! New arrivals begin to feel the Yearning's first pangs within days of settling here. We need - " Yllia hesitated, faltering for a moment before regaining her composure. "We need men."
"We need nothing!" Eshana shot back, louder than she had intended. "At least, I need nothing. The rituals of sapphery suffice for our baser instincts, and I will not give any more ground to the temptations forced upon me by a scion of She-Who-Thirsts."
Yllia's retort died in her throat as the fifth member of the council rapped her executioner blade against the Crystal Dome's stone floor. Unlike the others, she was clad from head to toe in her ceremonial Aspect suit, the sculpted musculature and blood-red plume spilling from her helm lending her a uniquely Amazonian look.
"This argument is meaningless." First Exarch Maerai intoned. Her voice was a low dirge, distorted into something harsh and cruel by the screaming emitters of her ghoulish Banshee Mask. "If we survive, another breeding cycle will be necessary to restore our losses. Remember the fate of Iyanden. Remember the doom of Malan'tai. If we are to avoid such disaster, our attention must be upon the foe, not one another."
"Quite." Auriel smoothly slipped back into the conversation as Yllia and Eshana fell into a mollified silence. "Once again, we are thankful for your directness, First Exarch."
Maerai simply bowed. Aydona rolled her eyes and stepped forwards. "Yllia is right in one regard. This will be an ugly battle." The Fleetmistress crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her companions. "If the readings she took are accurate, we're looking at well over a hundred Tyranid vessels, and that'll probably have doubled by the time they reach us. Mostly drones, thankfully, but their numbers will make striking at the Hive Ships challenging."
There was little fear in Aydona's voice, and she exchanged a glance with Eshana, grinning at the eagerness she saw upon the High Autarch's face. They had ever been the bloodthirstiest members of the council, and had consistently supported one another's calls for war despite Auriel and Yllia's words of restraint. Eshana licked her lips and leaned forwards, grasping the edges of the scrying table and looking to the rest of her companions.
"War has found us, Sisters, and by my summoning here I assume you are all in favour of fight over flight." There was a murmur of assent from the others. "Fate has granted us a little time to make preparations. I suggest we be about them quickly."